


From Now Until Forever

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/F, First Time, Girl Direction, Harry in a school girl skirt, Insecurity, Lesbian Problems, Louis in Juicy track pants, OT5 Friendship, Veronica and Liam in vinyl catsuits, in iconic Britney looks, obviously, this was an excuse to imagine the girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: The girls go to Britney Nite and Louis wears Juicy track pants and Harry isnot ok.—Niall takes the pint glass back from Harry and takes a swig, regarding her over the rim knowingly. “You’re nervous,” she observes with a grin. “Because you’re gonna get drunk at a gay bar with Louis, and you haven’t told her yet that you wanna marry her.”“Oh, my god, stop,” Harry scolds, hiding her face in her hands, everything suddenly hot and shivery. “It’s not that,” she adds, even though it most definitely is.“Then…you’re excited to see Louis in a schoolgirl skirt and bra? Covered in that body glitter that smells like cotton candy?” Niall presses, waggling her eyebrows, making Harry blush at the mere thought of Louis’s golden skin shimmering and sticky under club lights.





	From Now Until Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarredsodeep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Yes Or No, But No Maybes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891257) by [scarredsodeep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep). 



> This story has two origin points, so it has two important thank yous in addition to my usuals: 
> 
> 1\. thank you to Kaylie, Shark-Myths, Scarredsodeep, a girl or many names and many talents who I am lucky enough to call my friend. Kaylie wrote this story first in a different fandom, under the name Yes or No, but No Maybes. Kaylie's writing is very inspiring, so this fic is a smuttier and remix of hers, which was derived from a prompt I gave her at least, so I think it's ok I borrowed it. I love you Kaylie and I hope you love this. 
> 
> 2\. Thank you to my anon from last Sunday who didn't get the job and asked me for a snippet of my upcoming girl direction to lift her spirits. I got the message when I was in the car on the way to Disneyland, so I couldn't post a teaser, so instead I typed up the first 700 words of this in my notes app. It was so fun I decided to write a proper story, and here it is. I hope it's better than your job you didn't get! <3 
> 
> 3.Thank you Britney Spears, you are my hero 
> 
> 4.Thank you Jen, my ever-loyal, ever-speedy, ever patient beta and other hero. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

____

Harry self-consciously fiddles with the waistband of her plaid, pleated skirt, which is too short and too tight because she borrowed it from Veronica, who’s neither as tall nor as broad-hipped as Harry is. She just happens to possess not one but a _variety_ of Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, and Harry wasn't about to _buy_ an outfit for Britney Nite, so here she is, standing pigeon-toed near the bar in pinchy penny loafers, knee-high socks, and a skirt that doesn't fit. 

The waistband cuts into her hips, and there’s a bit of pudge spilling out over the top, just a tiny roll, but she feels exposed and self-conscious, plus her hair is in _pigtails_ , tiny and low, and that always makes her feel vulnerable, like a kid. She’s simply _not_ drunk enough yet to have her tummy hanging out in a real-life, honest-to-god gay club in Soho. 

“Gimme that,” she demands, gesturing to Niall’s beer. Niall’s the only person in the entire club who isn’t dressed like Britney Spears, save for a smudge of glittery lip gloss on her cheek left by Veronica that she has yet to wipe off because Niall is partial to Veronica’s kisses. Still, Niall couldn’t be persuaded to dress like Britney even for Britney Nite, and Veronica, who’s dressed in head-to-toe black PVC as “Toxic” motorcycle Britney, has already disappeared into a dark corner of the dance floor, so Harry feels dreadfully alone in her “...Baby One More Time” Britney getup, even though there are at least thirty-five other girls wearing the exact same thing milling about. “I feel weird,” she sighs after taking a warm, flat, and entirely disappointing swig of lager. “Like, embarrassed. Overdressed…or maybe _underdressed_? I dunno.”

Niall’s gaze unabashedly sweeps over Harry’s outfit before landing decidedly on her tits, which are pressed together in a very tight push-up bra. Harry usually wears bralettes, so she isn’t used to seeing her own cleavage; she keeps looking down and being surprised by it. “Really?” Niall asks, sounding skeptical. “Harry Starkers Styles feels underdressed? You don’t even have _nipple_ showing, mate. This should feel modest for you.”

Harry pouts and chokes down some lager. Niall’s right, or at least _sort of_ right. She generally doesn’t have a problem with showing skin or even with full-blown _nudity_ ; she’s always been the first to streak or skinny-dip or propose a game of strip poker at girl’s night or whatever. But after coming out, she doesn’t feel quite as comfortable with it, not like she was _before_ she realized how fucking _gay_ she is. Before she figured out that the way she looked at other girls’ bodies wasn’t just appreciation or envy. Before she accepted that it wasn’t some universal girl experience that no one ever talked about, that she really _was_ different. 

_Definitely_ before she realized that always wanting to sit in Louis Tomlinson’s lap and play with her hair and change in the same room as her wasn’t just a product of wanting to _be her_ as much as it was a product of wanting to _be her girlfriend_. Before she figured out _why_ she loved it when Louis teased her, goaded her mid-pillow fight so that it dissolved into a shrieking wrestling match, all tickling fingers around bare midriffs, soft skin, and Louis’s high, breathy peal of laughter. Before she had to start second-guessing every little thing about herself in relation to other girls. In relation to Louis. “This is a club,” she says eventually, shrugging and resisting the urge to button her Oxford shirt down over her naked tummy. “S’not my backyard, yeah?”

Niall takes the pint glass back from Harry and takes a swig, regarding her over the rim knowingly. “You’re nervous,” she observes with a grin. “Because you’re gonna get drunk at a gay bar with Louis, and you haven’t told her yet that you wanna marry her.”

“Oh, my god, stop,” Harry scolds, hiding her face in her hands, everything suddenly hot and shivery. “It’s not that,” she adds, even though it most definitely is.

“Then…you’re excited to see Louis in a schoolgirl skirt and bra? Covered in that body glitter that smells like cotton candy?” Niall presses, waggling her eyebrows, making Harry blush at the mere _thought_ of Louis’s golden skin shimmering and sticky under club lights.

“I doubt she’s gonna take the ‘Hit Me Baby’ route,” she muses, toying with the cigarette-burn hole in the sleeve of the unbuttoned grey cardigan that she also borrowed from Veronica. She realizes that she hasn’t put much thought into wondering what Louis will wear tonight at all, which is a little terrifying because whatever it is, it’ll look effortlessly good because Louis is effortlessly fit and Harry will probably have a stroke the second that she sees her. “Haven’t seen her in a skirt in ages,” she declares, possibly in an effort to placate herself. 

“Wish she and Liam would get here already,” Niall gripes. “I wanna get drunk and dance, asap.” 

“It’s a shame we couldn’t convince you to do the ‘Toxic’ stewardess Britney look,” Harry laments, pursing her lips at Niall’s dykey, predictable jeans and white tank top under plaid. “Bet you're still gonna pull some gorgeous girl, though,” she grumbles. 

“Hmmm,” Niall replies noncommittally, eyes cutting to the milling mess of Britneys on the dance floor. “We’ll see.” 

Harry isn’t the only lesbian in her friend group, not by a long shot, but somehow it doesn't change how she feels about showing skin and ogling skin and the whole _skin_ thing in general. Niall’s gay, Veronica’s bi, Louis’s a self-proclaimed dyke, and they all have their suspicions about Liam, even though she’s always dating some garbage boy with three brain cells and no sense of fashion and calling it love. Harry’s _not_ alone here, so there’s no real reason for her to _feel_ like she is, but all the same, she somehow senses that she's, like…more of an aberrancy than her friends, like she has to _hide_ the extent of her truly gay nature, like she’s not just gay, she’s _supernova gay._

Maybe it’s because she’s in love with someone in their friend group, someone she sees all the time under the guise of uncomplicated friendship. It sort of makes her feel _dirty_ to hide the secret from Louis, even though Niall knows and is always telling her that she should just suck it up and kiss her already. 

But Harry lives in constant fear that she’s _different_ from her friends, more gay or not gay enough or the creepy, weird, unacceptable type of lesbian that your parents warned you about. Maybe it’s because Niall and Louis and Veronica don’t talk about, like, _wanting to fuck_ girls, they just like them or think they’re hot or casually mention their exes, whereas Harry, on the other hand, entertains detailed fantasies about, like, being _railed_ by Louis, about licking her out until she can’t stand. She isn’t sure the other girls _think_ like that, leastways, if they do, they don’t _share_ such thoughts with her, so she just stews in her massive crush on Louis, drowning in a cesspool of highly graphic scenarios that she wishes would happen. It probably isn’t normal. She isn’t sure. “I hope they show up, too,” Harry sighs, tugging at one of her pigtails. “The waiting is making me anxious.” 

_What if they forgot. What if they decided not to come after all, and I dressed up in a slutty schoolgirl outfit for nothing. What if Louis doesn’t want to come because she_ knows _I want to spend tonight and every night between her thighs_ , Harry thinks, her mind supplying an endless litany of reasons why Louis might not want to be around her.

However, just as Harry’s anxieties are nearing the absurd, Louis’s distinct, “Oi, oi!!” cuts across the club over the din of Britney and bass, as if she’s answering a prayer. Harry nearly explodes out of her own skin, stomach twisting up in dual relief and fear as she hastily adjusts her outfit. 

“Ladies! Sorry to keep you waiting, but Li had to do her makeup six hundred times because she couldn’t get her eyeliner wings right. Behold!” Louis announces, steering a very sheepish Liam ahead of her. “Oops...she did it again!”

“Wow,” Harry and Niall gasp in unison. Liam’s dressed as “Oops!...I Did It Again” Britney, in a lipstick-red plastic turtleneck jumpsuit that’s a far bolder choice than Harry would have ever anticipated her making. Liam’s very pretty but not very confident, and Harry can count the number of times that she’s worn something skin-tight on _one hand_ , so this is sort of shocking. After a moment of awed silence, she and Niall dissolve into catcalls and claps, with Harry exclaiming, “Holy _shit,_ Liam, I didn’t even recognize you!” 

“Jesus, who is this, and what did you do to Li?!” Niall adds, grabbing Liam’s elbows and dragging her in, shamelessly once-overing her. “You might not wanna hug Veronica...she’s in the black kit from ‘Toxic,’ and I feel like you guys would stick together with all that latex.”

“Noted,” Liam grumbles, blushing the same colour as her catsuit. “M’so uncomfortable,” she whines against Harry’s ear as she hugs her. “But you know how Lou is, she convinces you to do insane shit and actually makes it sound good, and then you end up out in public wearing, like, _a rubber glove_ on your boobs. She’s a hypnotist.”

Harry _does_ know, all too well, how convincing and confidence-inspiring Louis can be. It’s one of the many reasons why she's so hopelessly in love with her, with the impossible rush of charisma that rubs off on everything around her, with the way that it makes Harry feel like she’s sun-kissed and brilliant just because she’s standing next to Louis, caught up in her orbit. 

She finally dares to _look_ at Louis, then, tearing her eyes away from the spectacle of Liam and her red jumpsuit, cheeks heating up instantly. 

Louis’s wearing low-rise Juicy track pants tucked into Uggs and a crop top emblazoned with the words _DUMP HIM_ , her choppy hair pulled back into a high, loose ponytail. It shouldn’t be mouthwateringly hot, but it definitely is; it’s so hot, in fact, that Harry can hardly breathe.

“I’m ‘Downtime, Stalked by the Paparazzi, Mid-2000s’ Britney,” Louis explains, popping her hip out and grinning. “On brand, yeah? Can’t believe I had an occasion to wear trackies out in public.”

Harry’s staring at the several inches of soft, padded tummy between Louis’s waistband and the lower hem of her shirt, golden and toned but not _hard_ , padded in a layer of bitable softness. Her mouth goes dry and she shivers as Louis steps in and hugs her tight, smelling as fruity and sweet as fourth year, all glitter and preteen perfume. “You look absurdly sexy...how many men am I gonna have to beat off you with a stick tonight?” Louis jokes, poking at Harry’s bare stomach. 

“Hopefully, you’ll have to beat off no men,” Harry teases back, skin tingling where it brushed up against Louis’s. 

“Hopefully,” Louis agrees, brows quirking up, hand lingering on the sweat-dewy ditch of Harry’s back before it moves to the bottom of her skirt, toying with the hem playfully, flipping it up. “God, is this Vee’s? Is that why it barely covers your arse?” 

Harry shrieks and twists away, flushing instantly. She’s going to need at least ten more drinks to deal with this, so she starts with a whiskey sour, hating the taste but knowing that nothing gets her fucked up quite so quickly as whisky does, and she _needs_ to get fucked up, fast, because those Juicy pants that Louis’s wearing just, like…they won’t stay _up_. The elastic is worn out in the waistband, so every time she leans over the bar and orders something or twists at the hip to hug someone or throws an arm around Niall’s shoulders so that she can lean close and tell a joke, they _sink down_ dangerously low, low enough to reveal the crack of Louis’s perfect, plump bum, low enough that Harry can see the hot pink of her pants. 

“Jesus, Lou,” she slurs after chugging her drink, reaching for Louis’s drawstrings and tugging at them in frustration. “The whole club can see your knickers.” 

Louis looks down, seemingly unconcerned as she sips her pint. “Sort of goes with the whole look, yeah? Wasn’t Britney’s thong always out?” 

Harry has to fight back a pathetic groan. _It’s distracting!_ she wants to yell, but that’s really unfair when everyone _else_ in this club is even _more_ scantily clad. Louis might be the most dressed-down Britney here, and Harry _still_ can’t deal. Instead, she downs the rest of her drink, tightens her pigtails like she’s about to go into battle, and offers her hand to Louis, yelling over the music, “Ready to dance?” 

Louis has, like, two-thirds of a beer left, which she glances down at before shrugging. “What the hell, sure. Let’s go find Veronica, m’dying to see this legendary red wig.” 

“Have fun, ladies, we’ll come out after this round,” Niall shouts, winking at Harry _right in front of Liam_ , which is totally uncalled for, but whatever. Harry just needs to be _moving_ , she needs _Britney_ and sweaty bodies and an _excuse_ to keep brushing up against Louis because right now she just seems clingy and embarrassing and weird. 

But it’s not like she'll make a move or anything. That’s never been the _plan_ with Louis…Louis, who’s her friend above all else, Louis, who she’d never risk pushing away. She just wants to be _close_ to her, however it happens, alone with her, even if nothing comes of it. It’s stupid, maybe, but she’s a little drunk, and “If U Seek Amy” is on, which is probably, like, Britney’s gayest song to date, so she grabs Louis by the wrist and drags her into a writhing, gyrating throng of girls, yelling, “Your trackies are falling down again!” 

Louis throws her head back and laughs, the loveliest sound and the loveliest smile, and at least five half-naked Britneys in their vicinity are eyeing them, but Harry can’t even pretend to be bothered. Louis grins at her, “Yeah, well, your skirt keeps flipping up. I think that, between the two of us, we’re gonna give the whole dance floor an eyeful.” 

_But you don’t understand_ , Harry wants to explain. _I don’t care about anyone else, I care about the fact that I can see your pubes with my own heathen, lustful eyes_. She doesn’t say anything, though, because she loses the ability to speak when Louis presses up against her with her _horribly tempting bum_ , pushing it against Harry’s hips while she punches the air, belting out a hoarse, elated, “ _But all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy,_ ” and that’s _a lot_ for Harry. 

They dance to a few songs, mostly a goofy, excited, sing-along type of dancing, which feels safe. Louis _does_ occasionally get too close, shaking her hair into her eyes and making faces at Harry through the choppy auburn strands, grinding up against her and giggling. She isn’t _trying_ to taunt; Harry knows that she’s just being silly and having a good time, teasing her just as Harry might tease Liam by, like, putting her tits all over her arm. She knows Louis probably wouldn’t fake-flirt like this if she _knew_ how much Harry dreams about sitting on her face, and that should make Harry feel awful, it sort of does, but not enough to actually make her stop. She’s definitely drunk now, which is severely limiting the amount of self-preservation or control she can exert. 

Some girl buys Louis a drink that she gratefully gulps before gently turning down the girl’s offer to dance. She shares the rest of her free Pina Colada with Harry, the two of them downing it so quickly that it leaves them giddy and dizzy and sweaty and out of their minds for a bit, and it feels too _good_ to touch and let herself be touched for Harry to remember why it’s a bad idea. She loses her cardigan and ties her Oxford around her waist at some point, which means she's in nothing but her skirt and bra and knee-highs, but she’s forgotten her self-consciousness, she’s forgotten _so many_ things, lost them between “(You Drive Me) Crazy” and “Lucky.” She holds onto Louis’s waist while they grind slowly, filthily to “I’m a Slave 4 U,” and it might be the highlight of her life so she can’t even make herself regret it. She lets herself get lost in it, stomach hot and tight, eyes half-lidded and hazy with how fucking _perfectly_ their bodies fit together, how easy everything feels when she's drunk and not second-guessing every single thing she does. 

The dance floor smells like smoke and strawberry body spray and hair gel, and it’s a little distracting, so halfway through “My Prerogative,” Harry pushes her face into Louis's shoulder to inhale her, to breathe in her spicy sweat and boy-deodorant and FlavaCraze chapstick. She’d happily die here. She’s basking in the drowsy heat of Louis’s body as they sway to the music when Louis says _something_ , voice soft and raspy and so faraway sounding that Harry almost misses it. 

“You look so fit tonight, Hazza,” Louis whispers against her, fingers grazing the backs of her thighs just below the hem of her skirt, dangerously close to her bum. “S’fucking me up a bit.” 

In 0.3 seconds, Harry is _fully_ awake and _mortifyingly_ wet, right there in the middle of the dance floor. “What did you say?!” she hisses, head snapping up off Louis’s shoulder to look her in the eye. Louis snatches her hands back, eyes wide and hazy-drunk as she stumbles away from Harry, accidentally knocking into a 6-foot drag queen dressed as “2001 VMAs” Britney sans snake. They both nearly topple, so Harry reaches out and grabs Louis by the wrists, pulling her upright, pulling her _close_. “Did you…did you just say—” 

“Fuck, m’sorry, Hazza, I’m...m’drunk, I didn’t mean—,” she stutters, and Harry is fucking _confused_ , her skin still tingling from where Louis touched her, hot and electric. 

“You didn't mean it?” Harry asks, trying and failing to keep her confusion and heartbreak from making her voice crack. “I wouldn’t have…I wouldn’t have minded,” she makes herself say, even though it feels _pathetic_ , it feels desperate. “If you thought...if you were looking at me.” 

Louis laughs humourlessly, hiding her face in her hands before she cards them through her hair. “You would,” she says, quietly enough that Harry would have lost her voice to the din of club music if she weren’t leaning in closely, attuned to every single thing Louis might ever say. “S’not just looking. You don’t even…you don’t even know what you do to me,” she mumbles, gaze sweeping to the ceiling. She won’t _look_ at Harry, if she would just _look_ , she would see what _she_ does to _her_ , how she's making her stomach drop, ending her life, changing everything forever. Instead, she drops her gaze to the floor and sighs, “Fuck...I should go,” before turning on her heel, stumbling through the crowd, and disappearing into a sea of Britneys. 

Harry’s heart stops and shock has her frozen, but this is everything she’s ever wanted; she _has_ to make her drunk arse move, she has to chase the receding baby-blue of Louis’s _DUMP HIM_ shirt and _tell her_ , tell her everything. _It isn’t just looking for me either. I dream of your mouth, of your thighs, I imagine you with your hoodie pushed up to your throat and your chest covered in my bite marks, I want your hands bruising my wrists and your taste on my tongue, I want all of you, all of you forever_. She shoves past an “In the Zone” Britney with her collar and tie, the room spinning, her heart in her throat. 

It’s so crowded that it takes Harry forever to get outside, not to mention that she isn’t very coordinated _sober_ , let along after a few drinks. Over the course of her mission to reach the door, she manages to half-convince herself that none of this actually happened: Louis _didn’t_ touch her under her skirt and tell her that she was fit, Louis _didn’t_ confess that she fantasized about her, and all of this is a tragic misunderstanding because why would _Louis_ , who is glorious and perfect, ever look at _Harry_ , who has very nearly fallen down three times in the last ten minutes, even though she's wearing penny loafers instead of _heels_? She doesn’t have any fucking idea what she's going to say when she finally finds her, but she has to _try_. She needs to _know_ for sure if this love is in vain, or if she could have been wrong all this time.

She finally finds Louis on the front of the club, leaning against the wall and having a smoke a few feet from an “Outrageous” Britney who’s so violently and enthusiastically snogging a “Radar” Britney that she’s knocked her spectacular hat to the kerb. “Louis,” Harry sputters, shivering in her bra as she hurries down the sidewalk to her, arms wrapped defensively around her chest. “What the _fuck_ was that?!” 

“M’sorry,” Louis exhales quietly, shaking her head and tapping ash to the pavement beneath her Uggs, still refusing to look at Harry. “I needed some air, needed to sober up a little,” she explains evenly. “I really...you dealt with that quite well,” she says eventually, _finally_ looking up if even for a moment, eyes fear-dark and apologetic before they flick nervously back down. “But I get it if you’re feeling freaked out. I, like…yeah. I’d love for our friendship to just go back to normal and pretend like this never happened, but I get it if can’t move past your best mate admitting that she wants to shag you,” Louis chokes out bitterly before pushing her cigarette butt into the wall, shaking her head. “M’such a fucking idiot.” 

Harry dissolves, suddenly weak and shaky with disbelief, so much so that she doesn't trust herself to stand properly without support, so the only thing left to do is stumble to the wall, to Louis. She pins her against it, hands braced on her shoulders, dizzy with the startled clear blue of Louis’s irises as she looks up, pretty mouth hanging open in shock. “How do you think of shagging me?” Harry asks in a low voice, swallowing thickly, woozy with the smell of Louis’s menthols. “What do you wanna do to me?’ 

Louis squirms against the wall, breath catching. “Don’t make me do this,” she hisses, eyes flashing. “Don’t make a joke out of it, s’ _not_ a joke for me, it’s not—”

Harry dips down so that her lips brush against the shell of Louis’s ear, breath coming out hot and boozy and nervous as she whispers, “I think about you finger-fucking me, like, while I’m on all fours, and you’re pushing me into the mattress, with my hips in the air. And I think about rubbing myself against your thighs, m’ _always_ looking at your thighs, love them,” she gets out in a rush, the knots in her stomach tightening at Louis’s involuntary gasp, the subtle, terrified shift of her body. “But usually, like, most times, I get myself off thinking about eating you out. Like, you using my mouth to come in for hours, letting me—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Harry,” Louis rasps, cursing as she tosses her cigarette butt aside and grabs Harry’s face between her palms to kiss her. 

And, _fuck_ , it’s rough and good and wet, and Harry just melts into it, letting Louis maul her palms all over her bare back, scratching marks into it, flipping their positions so that she can press _Harry_ up against the wall, pushing her legs apart with a strong thigh. “Like this?” she asks into the slick heat of their kiss, fucking Harry's mouth open with her tongue, not letting her answer and instead urging her to grind against the trembling plane of her quads. “You think about rubbing on me like this? Outside a club where anyone can see?” 

Harry whimpers, humping desperately and not caring _one bit_ that her skirt is rucked up around her hips, that she’s outside a club in her bra, that the snogging Britneys to their right just got offended and left, shooting them appalled looks, like whatever they’re doing is somehow so much less tasteful than what they were doing. Harry doesn’t _care_ , she can’t, not with Louis’s greedy hands all over her, her lips soft and bitten and mouthing down Harry’s neck, licking her sweat. “Anywhere,” she mumbles, sliding her hands down the dip of Louis’s lower back and over the perfect curve of her bum in soft, Juicy velvet, squeezing it hungrily. “Preferably in your bed, but here’s fine. Just want you...don’t care where.” 

“God,” Louis groans, sounding broken open, mouth parted and panting into Harry’s. “This whole time, I thought...I felt so _guilty_ for wanting you s’badly as I did, and here you are, so fucking _dirty_ , and I didn’t even know it. Should have drunkenly groped your bum ages ago.” 

Harry gasps as Louis brings her thigh up incrementally into the heat between her own, her whole body feeling like it’s on fire, her cunt throbbing against the steady pressure. “Ages ago?” she asks between fierce, heady kisses, Louis’s _teeth_ scraping her lips, ruining her mouth. “How...how long?” 

“Fuck, I dunno,” Louis admits, smoothing her hands down Harry’s bare sides before dropping them to her thighs and sliding them back up under the haphazard pleats of her skirt, fingertips teasing against her knickers, which are just flimsy black lace that she’s already soaked through. “Always. Since I met you, and you were, like, sixteen and telling everyone that you were straight, even though I knew better,” Louis confesses, and, _Jesus_ , that was two whole _years_ ago. The thought of Louis having wanted her all this time makes Harry sob weakly in overwhelm, working her hips in tiny, discreet circles. She feels like she’s getting Louis all wet, like she’s messing up the velvet of her trackies, but she can’t stop, she doesn’t _care_ about the traffic on the street or the bouncers by the doors or the endless crowd of Bitneys filtering in and out of the club, tripping past them in heels. 

“You could fuck me right here,” she moans in Louis’s ear, tongue flicking out to the warm, private space just behind it, where she can smell the too-sweet perfume Louis put in her hair for her costume. “I’ve wanted you for that long, too, don't wanna wait anymore.” 

“Oh, my _god_ , you’re _insane_ ,” Louis grits out, digging her nails so deeply into Harry’s love handles that she yelps, twists desperately in her arms. “But m’not gonna fuck you against some wall in Soho, love.” 

“Take me home, then,” Harry begs, kissing messily down Louis’s neck, lips stinging. She feels drunk, even though she should be sobering up, drunk on Louis’s sweat, her sweetness, the way she has her pinned with such strength and certainty, hands everywhere, like she knows that Harry’s falling apart, and it’s her job to keep her together. 

“Think you can wait a whole tube ride?” Louis asks, thumbing the underwire of Harry’s bra, shaking her head. “Fuck, just wanna get this off you.” 

And Harry doesn't _want_ to wait, but she’s survived this long, she can handle the two stops between Oxford Circus and St. Pancras, where Louis and Liam’s student housing is. “Take me home,” she repeats, nipping at Louis’s jaw and hooking her thumbs into the too-loose waistband of her trackies. “And you can do whatever you want to me.” 

Louis curses, and they might dissolve into a snogging mess a few times before they _actually_ push up off the wall and Harry gets her shirt back on and buttoned up in a semblance of public decency, but eventually they’re at the tube station, hands joined tight and sweaty, Harry’s heart pounding at how wild and improbable and surreal this whole thing is. 

She’d be questioning whether any of it was happening at all if she couldn’t still _taste_ Louis, if Louis wasn’t still looking at her with bright, hungry eyes, licking her lips like she wants to eat Harry alive. It’s _mind-blowing_ , to have Louis _palpably_ wanting her, checking her out, drawing her close, whispering dirty, hot, _impatient_ things in her ear like they aren’t surrounded by crowds of drunk pub-crawlers and tourists on the platform. 

The Underground is a terrible place to battle paralyzing arousal, but here Harry is, knees so shaky that when their train finally comes, she wobbles onto it, half-worried that she’ll fall down. There’s nowhere to sit, so they’re stuck standing shoulder to shoulder, so many fucking people crammed around them that it isn’t even noticeable that they’re pressed flush together, Louis behind Harry with an arm looped around her waist, pulling her close. With her lips against her ear, she whispers, “Vee’s shirt’s too tight…s’driving me crazy, the gaps between your buttons.” 

“Can you see my bra?” Harry asks, even though she _knows_ Louis can, knows that her tits are practically spilling out. They aren’t huge, but they aren’t Veronica’s delicate A-cups, and she felt sort of bad and awkward about that earlier in the night, too big or too soft or something, but now she just feels sexy and coveted under Louis’s roving palms, shivering as Louis carefully, carefully smooths her hand over her stomach and up to the shelf of her chest, fingers sneaking into the spaces between the buttons to feel skin. It’s hardly anything compared to the way that Louis was feeling her up outside the club, but they’re _on the tube_ , so it feels _scandalous_ , more thrilling and dangerous than anything else that’s ever happened in Harry’s life. 

“I can feel it,” Louis answers, pushing one finger beneath the underwire, rubbing at the indentation it leaves on Harry’s ribcage, hips shifting forward so that she’s pressing herself flush against Harry’s bum, positively radiating heat. “Christ, can’t fucking _wait_ to kiss you again...touch you. Love your tits, they’re perfect, m’always having to look away when you’re being your drunk, naked self because m’always worried you’ll notice me staring,” Louis babbles, voice getting lower and hotter with each word. Harry can _feel_ Louis blushing against her neck, and it’s _maddening_ , all she can do is shudder and let out an involuntary whimper. 

“Fuck,” she whines, backing her arse up, pushing it into the cradle of Louis’s hips. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“S’mutual,” Louis mutters, the hand she _doesn’t_ have sneaking fingers into Harry’s shirt grazing up the outside of her leg teasingly, up past the hem of her skirt. “Can’t fucking stand it.” 

Harry might be dripping down her fucking thighs by the time they actually reach King’s Cross. The doors open, and she and Louis hurry out and up the escalators in a throng of people, Louis pressing fleeting, feverish kisses to Harry’s neck. It’s technically a short walk from the station to Louis’s flat, but Harry feels like it takes a fucking eternity, not to mention her body is _aching_ with want, stomach knotted up and thighs quaking from so much involuntary clenching. Louis fumbles with her keys, Juicy pants slung so low and obscene on her hips that all Harry can do is stare and think about how she’s gonna get those _off_ , finally, she’s gonna get to bite the delicious roll of golden skin that she keeps getting stuck on every time Louis bends over or twists. 

“Jesus, _fuck_ , you’d think I could unlock my own door,” Louis grumbles, fiddling with her key ring clumsily. “Me hands are shaking.” Harry is about to offer to help, even though she’s fairly certain that she’s twice as useless, when Louis makes a triumphant noise and the door swings open. “Finally.” 

Harry has been to this flat countless times and imagined Louis snogging her on virtually every surface of it, so wherever they end up, it’ll fulfill something that she has actively hungered for, a thought that makes her both dizzy and overwhelmed. Louis wastes no time kicking off her Uggs, striding over to her laptop, throwing it open, and booting up Britney Spotify before turning on her heel and facing Harry, eyes wide and lips still pink, bitten. “C’mere,” she says in a low voice, and Harry could fucking _die_. 

She falls into Louis’s arms, and if they were ever going to make it up the stairs and into Louis’s actual _bed_ , they certainly aren’t now. After only seconds of heated, messy kissing, with Louis _sucking_ Harry’s tongue, her fists tugging at her pigtails, they’re toppling onto the couch, and Harry’s pretty sure that’s where they’re staying because her legs are already jelly, and she doesn't envision herself standing anytime soon. 

Louis’s just such a phenomenal kisser, so desperate even as she’s practiced and thorough, holding Harry’s face angled exactly how she wants her and kissing her so _deeply_ , groaning into it, making her so breathless, kissing her like kissing is _fucking_ and her goal is to make Harry _come_. They’re grinding, too, Louis pushing Harry’s thighs apart and fitting herself between them so that she can fuck her down into the couch cushions, her weight full and crushing and perfect, and Harry feels like she’s already _close_ , like all she needs is Louis’s warm hand cupping her mound under her skirt, and she’d be done for. “Fuck, _god_ ,” Louis moans, breaking their kiss messily before mouthing down the column of Harry’s throat, getting her teeth into every deliberate suck. It hurts, and Harry _loves_ it, lurching her hips as she starts keening. “You taste so fucking good, Harry. Wanna eat you out, that okay?” 

“Yes, _fuck_ ,” Harry practically sobs, stomach clenching. She’s been dancing and she’s sweaty and it’s been hours since she showered, but that reality seems very far away, plus she can _tell_ Louis wants her so badly that she won’t _care_ , will probably get off on how human she tastes, how wet and messy and turned on she is. 

“Oh, my god,” Louis marvels, pulling back and sitting on her heels, hair in her face as she parts Harry’s thighs with trembling palms, thumb ghosting ever so gently over the soaked crotch of her knickers. “Can see you through these, how fucking swollen you are...fuck. Prettiest thing.” 

“M’not, like, freshly shaved or anything,” Harry remembers, voice slurring, sounding very thick in her throat. 

Louis shakes her head, clambering down from the couch to the floor so that her face is between Harry’s thighs, and Harry can _feel_ her exhalations coming out short and laboured, desperate. “Hazza, I wouldn’t care if you’d never shaved, I’d still wanna get my mouth on you more than anything else in the world, yeah?” she tells her breathlessly, and then, because it’s clear that she can’t wait another second, she hooks her index finger into the crotch of the panties and pulls them aside, not even bothering to get them down Harry’s hips before kissing her there, soft and open-mouthed, the hottest thing that Harry has ever felt in her whole entire life. 

She whites out and yelps, arching her back and grinding her head into the cushion beneath her as Louis whimpers into her cunt, tongue so slick and wet and perfect that Harry feels like a _flood_ , impossibly wet under Louis’s sloppy mouth. And, _fuck_ , she’s been eaten out before, but it’s never felt anything _close_ to this, never as sensitive or nervy or _hot_. She's scared that she’s gonna come right then and there when Louis pulls back, panting as she croaks out, “ _Christ_ , Harry, you taste so perfect.” She sounds broken, inhaling a sharp and ragged breath before adding, “You’re gonna have to tell me what you like now...before I lose my mind and get greedy and stop being able to process, like, language.” 

“Whatever you’re doing is good, _so_ good,” Harry promises, humping the air as Louis finally rolls her wet knickers down her thighs, kissing her knobby knees one by one. “Get as greedy as you want.” 

“Wanna eat your arse, too, that okay?” Louis asks, gently thumbing over Harry’s slit and then lower, teasing the edge of her rim, making her buck and shiver. “S’alright if it’s not.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,”Harry mewls, squinting hard against the explosion of static behind her eyelids just _thinking_ about Louis’s insistent tongue being _there_ , in her _bum_. She’s never had anyone eat her bum before, but she’s thought about eating Louis’s at least one hundred times in the past two years, so she can wrap her head around the idea, accept however absurd it seems that Louis might like to do something so intimate and dirty to her. “Yeah, I mean, if _you_ want to.” 

“I want to so badly,” Louis rasps, licking her lips before thumbing Harry apart and affixing her hot, sucking mouth right on her clit, swirling her tongue around it, everything molten and maddening and slick-wet. Then she slides her palms under Harry’s arse and pulls her forward before pushing her back, bending her in half so that _everything_ is exposed, and Harry can’t fucking _believe it_ , can’t fucking believe that Louis’s getting rug burn on her knees from this, _from the floor_ , just to bury her head and drown between Harry’s thighs. 

And then Harry has to make fists in the fucking couch to keep from pulling Louis’s hair because, _holy shit_ , this is so much, she’s never felt anything half as hot and wet as Louis’s mouth, and she might be in danger of hyperventilating, but she doesn’t even care because what a way to die. Louis’s making so much _noise_ , eating her out like she’s starved, alternating between sucking her clit and tongue-fucking up into where she's wettest, all the while using the slick that’s dripping down her crack to rub into her arsehole, softening her up. Harry can feel herself loosening and clenching, hole fluttering against Louis’s thumb, and it’s _filthy_ , so much sensation that her thighs and abdominals are spasming involuntarily. At some point, Louis licks down past her slit to her pucker, groaning as she tilts Harry back into the couch and tongues her fully, the sensation wide and wet and sloppy until suddenly it _isn’t_ , the point of her tongue now pushing _into_ Harry, fucking her tightest hole with the tip, and, _god_ , if Harry touched her clit, she’d come, but she can’t remember where her hands are or what to do with them, so instead she just sobs. 

Louis’s relentless, eating her arse out while she teases Harry’s clit with her other hand, never quite rough or focused enough to bring Harry off, just to the point where she’s shivering and jolting and crying out. Amidst the haze, Louis pulls away, rubbing her sticky palms down Harry’s thighs, over the mad tremble of them, as she asks, “Hazza, you doing okay? All this all right?” 

And Harry has to really will herself to open her eyes, which are scrunched shut and tear-bleary, she’s so lost in the throes of it all. “I’m great,” she wheezes, looking down at Louis through a mist of tears, Louis, who’s flushed red and _all_ pupil, lips swollen and chin glistening, and, _fuck_ , Harry has imagined her like this so many times, but actually _seeing_ it makes her breath catch. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” she tells Louis, her own voice sounding far away, under water. “Like, the most gorgeous.” 

Louis laughs breathily and shakes her head, thumbing over Harry’s clit so that she lurches, keens again. “ _You_ are...wanna live down here.” Then, she takes her free hand and unties the already loose waistband of her Juicy trackies, working her fingers under the fabric and in between her strong thighs. “M’gonna make myself come while I eat you out, that okay?” 

Harry throws her head back and groans, stomach dropping at the thought of Louis’s perfect, delicate fingers rubbing herself under soft velvet, how wet she must be from all of this, if Harry’s own body is any indicator. “Yeah, that’s good, s’long as I can get you off after, too. I want you to come in my mouth so, so badly.” 

Louis makes a sound, choked off and reedy. “Promise, I’ll come for you,” she says after a moment. “Just need to do it meself first, so that I can actually, like, _enjoy you_ for more than a minute, yeah?” Her lashes flutter as her hand moves in her trackies, working herself over, and, _fuck_ , Harry wants to touch, wants to taste, wants Louis all over her in every way. “You look so fucking hot,” Louis groans, pulling Harry’s skirt down before slipping her hand up her inner thigh so that it disappears under the red plaid up to her wrist. It looks lewd and dirty, and Harry gasps as Louis pushes two fingers up into her where she’s still wet and hungry and throbbing, crooking them deliciously. “Been wanting to fuck you under this skirt all night. Couldn’t stop thinking about it, how I wanted to flip it back over your bum and lick you, and _Christ_ , you’re so _fit_ ,” she babbles, fucking herself at the same time she’s fucking Harry, hard enough that Harry can see her forearms flex, the lithe muscle flickering under golden skin. 

“Louis,” she whines, bucking her hips, wishing she could remember actual words so that she could ask for Louis’s mouth again, but before she can formulate a sentence, Louis’s reading her mind, ducking under her skirt, and sucking Harry’s cunt, licking her all over, fingers driving in so deeply and rhythmically that it takes all of three seconds of Harry riding the sensation before she’s coming, thighs clenching together and trapping Louis’s head as she pulses and shakes, voice ripped from her in a solitary broken moan. 

She collapses bonelessly, but Louis doesn’t pull away, gasping, like she expects her to; she just withdraws her fingers in a slick mess and pushes Harry’s thighs apart, tongue teasing softly, a barely there touch over Harry’s clit between gentle, nursing sucks. It isn’t intense enough to hurt, but Harry’s so sensitive that she's trembling as she whimpers and writhes and just _lets_ Louis keep licking, wondering how something can feel _this fucking good_ so soon after coming. She can feel Louis getting sloppier and sloppier, so she forces her eyes open in time to see Louis’s hand working furiously between her thighs, so fucking close, and _then_ she gets still and tremulous, pressing her face into Harry’s cunt and moaning as she comes, her whole body jerking in a glorious, fluid motion. 

Harry lies there in awe, shivering as Louis pants right between her legs, every huff of air making her squirm as it flickers over her. “Will you sit on my face now?” Harry eventually asks, unclenching one of her tingling hands from the couch to pet Louis’s soft, messy hair. 

“Is that what you want?” Louis asks, pushing herself up on unsteady arms to smile at Harry. They regard each other for a loaded moment before Louis makes a sound and is all over her again, kissing up her stomach, unbuttoning her shirt with pruney fingers. “Look at you,” she marvels, hands all over Harry’s tits in their absurd push-up bra. “Get this thing off, yeah? Want you in nothing but that skirt.” 

Harry’s stomach _won’t_ stop dropping. Everything Louis says, the way she _touches_ her with such tenderness and intent, is so far beyond any scenario she could have possibly imagined that it keeps her own immense insecurities at bay, prevents her from second-guessing this. The fact that Louis can _make herself come_ while she licks Harry out because she thinks she tastes good is just…amazing, incomprehensible. She feels so lucky that she wants to cry, so her eyes might be wet as she clumsily struggles out of the too-tight Oxford and bra, skin burning under Louis’s hungry gaze. “Here,” she says, settling back under Louis with her tits officially out, nipples half-hard now that they’re exposed. “You’ve seen ‘em a million times, dunno what the big deal is.” 

Louis groans, dropping her head to press a hundred messy, feverish kisses all over Harry’s chest, thumbing desperately over her nipples before she takes one into her mouth and sucks. Harry’s nipples are sometimes too sensitive to be played with, but Louis’s rough enough that the pain counters the tickle, and it just feels _good_ , aching and hot deep in her gut. “Yeah, but not like _this_ , god. Never gotten to touch you like I want to...feels like m’dreaming,” Louis sighs, voice soft and muffled against Harry’s skin as she nips and sucks. 

“Louis,” Harry whimpers, body shifting under her, hands all over her back, her bum, which she can’t stop squeezing, marveling at the way it fits her palms so perfectly. “I want you to sit on my face, like, I need it so badly,” she begs, and Louis gasps, grinding hard against Harry, driving a breathy yelp out of her. 

“Yeah?” she smiles coyly, tearing herself away from Harry’s tits and sitting up on her knees. Harry watches as she struggles out of her Juicy trackies and pink knickers, eyes wide and mouth open as she licks her lips over and over again in anticipation. “You said you thought about it, that it was what you thought about most, yeah? Eating me out?” Louis asks, smoothing her fingers over her pubic hair, which looks so soft and thick and wonderful, curly even though the hair on Louis’s head is straight. 

“I’ve come so many times thinking about it, s’embarrassing,” Harry confesses, palming over Louis’s thighs, thumbs sliding up so they’re only centimeters away from her pretty auburn bush. Louis stays kneeling over her hips, teasing her fingers inside herself while Harry watches, the _DUMP HIM_ shirt riding up to show the delicious curve of her under-boob as she arches her back. 

“Probably not as many times as I’ve come thinking about your mouth,” Louis whispers, shifting up the couch, this time close enough that Harry can _smell_ her, spicy and salty and so, so good, can _see_ the shiny filaments of wetness clinging to her pubes and thighs. “Your mouth…it’s so gorgeous, so big. Thought about what it would feel like on me, how _wet_ …god,” she hisses, and Harry can’t take it anymore, she _needs_ to taste, she needs to drown, to suffocate. 

“Let me show you how how wet I can make you, _please_ ,” she moans, and in seconds, Louis’s cursing, shifting forward on her knees, and _finally_ , finally lowering herself right onto Harry’s open, waiting mouth. 

The first few seconds are so heady that Harry almost passes out, forgetting how to breathe as she just _devours_ her, licking and sucking so desperately that she doesn’t pull back to inhale; she doesn't want to _stop_ long enough to inhale, so she just lets herself get light-headed and dizzy and feverish until Louis pushes her back, hooks a thumb into her slack mouth, and whimpers, “God, _fuck_ , Hazza,” voice high and ragged, stomach heaving and suddenly glistening in a fine sheen of sweat. “Don’t hurt yourself,” she says, voice high and shaky. 

“Too much?” Harry slurs, licking Louis off her lips, not able to think past wanting _more_ , feeling like she’ll die without it.

Louis shakes her head, petting Harry’s hair and thumbing over her swollen lips. “No, just...remember to breathe. M’not going anywhere, and if you go slowly, I’ll ride you like this for as long as you want.” 

That, of course, sounds preferable to dying, so Harry tries hard to curb her hunger, nodding before Louis settles over her again, everything so fucking _swollen_ and pink and gorgeous, her cunt filling up Harry’s mouth as she sucks gently and flicks her tongue up and down the length of Louis’s slit. 

Louis’s clit is hard and throbbing, and she makes a choked, gasping sound every time Harry licks it, which is driving Harry fucking _crazy_ , knowing that she can _do_ this to Louis, make her cry out, so she sucks it into her mouth and nearly _dies_ at the way Louis melts into her, pushing her full weight down for a moment before tensing up again. 

“No, that’s good, you can smother me,” Harry promises after pulling away with a wet, obscene sound, her lips ghosting over Louis’s. “Just sit on me...fuck my mouth, I swear it’s okay,” she begs, and Louis must be tired from holding herself up because she easily slackens, trembling as she does it, and, _fuck_ yes, this is what Harry _needs_ , Louis grinding her cunt into her open mouth, thighs flexing around her neck so strong and perfect and sweat-damp.

Harry mauls her hands up and down Louis’s quads, up her back, over the undulation of her perfect _arse_ as Louis thrusts, whimpering and gasping with her head thrown back, fucking against Harry’s mouth, _choking_ her like she wants. Louis’s tits are little and firm, but she’s moving so much that they’re bouncing, and as Harry lets go of her bum to shove her hands up the front of the crop top and cup them desperately, Louis comes. 

It’s the best fucking feeling, her cunt spasming and clenching against Harry’s mouth, come leaking down over her chin and sliding in rivulets down her neck. Louis comes wetter than Harry does, and it’s the hottest fucking thing, surprising her with how _much_ fluid there is to swallow, to gag on. “Oh, my god,” Louis grunts as she wrenches away, dripping on Harry’s chest before collapsing on top of her. “You fucking…wow.” 

Harry’s never gonna wash her face again. She’s never gonna _move_ again; she’s gonna stay right here with her arms looped around Louis’s back while they breathe in tandem, come all over her face like the best and most filthy baptismal. She wants to die, or live forever, right fucking here for all of eternity. “Oh, my god,” she echoes, voice so low it’s basically a fucked-out rumble, far away, like thunder. “I thought you said you could ride my face forever if I went slowly.” 

“You didn’t go slowly,” Louis giggles. “Not even a little bit. You were, like, starving on a desert island.” 

“M’sorry,” Harry sighs, palming down the deep, sweat-dewy curve of Louis’s back, thumbing into the dimples on either side of her spine and wishing she could lick them. “I’ve wanted that for a long time...couldn’t be chill.” 

“It was fine...was great, actually. Plus, hopefully, this isn’t...like…the last time, so maybe we can build up more of a tolerance to each other and last a bit longer? I haven’t come so quickly twice in a row in, like…m’whole life,” Louis stammers, rolling to the side a bit and wedging herself into the couch between Harry and the back cushions. “Erm, not to assume you want to fuck me again...no pressure.” 

“I’ll die if we don’t fuck again, Louis,” Harry says very plainly, lifting her hips up so that she can wiggle out of the plaid skirt. “Do you think Veronica will even want this thing back?” 

“Definitely,” Louis murmurs, lips in Harry’s hair. “She’s gonna treat it like a souvenir. The end of her having to hear my laments.” 

Harry gasps, stunned that Veronica never fucking _told_ her, since she’s pretty sure her affections were, like, _glaringly_ obvious. “What laments?” she asks, tugging the elastic out of Louis’s short, choppy hair before putting it on her own wrist. 

“You know, the _I wish I could sit on Harry’s face, but she probably doesn't want that_ laments. They were stupid and wrong, obviously,” she smiles shyly, tracing idle patterns on Harry’s sternum with her fingers as they lie quietly for a moment, listening to the final notes of “Womanizer” before the fade into “Born to Make You Happy.” Harry’s wondering if she should get up and find a blanket before anyone comes home and finds them like this when Louis clears her throat and says, “So…just fyi, I don’t have any expectations of you or this or where it should go. M’just really happy it happened at all.” 

It lingers in the air, shattering Harry’s former state of fucked-out bliss and tranquility, because _what_? Is Louis about to tell her something she doesn't want to hear, like she has a secret girlfriend somewhere so this has to stay casual, or she doesn't _do_ relationships, or this was fun, but she doesn’t want Harry to, like, fall in love or anything? Harry stiffens up, bracing herself for impact, trying hard to get over whatever heartbreaking thing Louis is about to tell her when Louis adds, “But you should _probably_ know that, like…you’re all of my fantasies and dreams, not just the sexy ones. I don’t just wanna fuck you, I want to, like…take you on dates and sleep next to you and go on holiday with you to every weird bed-and-breakfast in Europe. I've thought about it all. Wished for it. And I know that’s a lot, and I'm happy to be friends with benefits if that’s what you prefer…but I thought I should probably just, I dunnno, tell you. In case I...I wasn't alone.” 

Harry lets out the breath she didn’t even know she was holding, sinking into the couch before rolling over and pressing her face into Louis’s neck. “I’ll, erm, refrain from making a U-Haul joke because those are bad and dated,” she says before pressing a kiss to Louis’s collarbone. “But, like, Louis, I’d move in with you tomorrow if you asked. I would _not_ be happy if this became a friends with benefits thing, I’d cry myself to sleep.” 

Louis laughs so hard that they both shake with the force of it, and Harry’s eyes well up as she nuzzles into Louis’s pulse, kissing her and feeling the speed of her pulse pick up as she says, “Well, it’s settled then. I’ll hire the removal van first thing in the morning, and we can go get everything from your flat.” 

“Perfect,” Harry sighs, before leaning back and inhaling enough air into her lungs for a proper serenade. “From now until forever, that’s how long I’ll be true, I’ll make you this vow and promise you, now until forever, I’ll never stop loving youuuu,” she belts out as they both dissolve into laughter that eventually turns into kisses, wandering hands, and stifled gasps. All the while, Britney plays in the background, singing, _there’ll come a day, when the world stops turning, and stars will fall from the sky, but this feeling will last, when the sun stops burning, all I wanna do is love you, till the end of time._


End file.
